


Pyre

by Decada



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Bonfire, Fire, Gen, Other, Prompt Fic, burn me clean, idk - Freeform, prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:28:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27381199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Decada/pseuds/Decada
Summary: Matt chilling at the beach.
Kudos: 2





	Pyre

An early and pointless ficlet for the October-November prompt posted on hetalia-writers-monthly: bonfire. (https://hetalia-writers-monthly.tumblr.com/post/632477188583800832/)  
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It felt like everything around him breathed, and all that breathed did so with his name cradled in their exhales. The rustle of the leaves dancing in the wind. The crash of the water and foam upon the sand and cliffside. The weak calls of birds as they take shelter. The last twinkle of stars that had already died in the clear, black expanse above.

He heard the call of his name strongest in the crackle of the flames before him.

Matthieu.

He closed his eyes and breathed, swallowing the salt of the sea in the air. When he released and opened his eyes again, the fire seemed to have drawn closer to him, or him to it, though he hadn’t taken one step since he lit the fire.

Matthieu.

He snapped a branch in half and, with greater care and reverence than was necessary, placed one of the pieces into the pyre. And with the ravenous glee of a hungry god, the fire consumed the offering, built itself higher on it. It was a mere fraction taller, but its fervor might as well have made it able to reach the night sky. It flickered, twisted, thrummed, swelling outward and inviting the sole occupant of the beach to its warm embrace until Mattheiu could feel his heart beat in tandem with the pyre’s pulsation.

Like with everything Mattheiu did, this was a point of contention between the two men who once raised and warred over him. Arthur boasted with obnoxious pride that Matthieu was connecting to the magic of his partial British roots. Francis agreed, and never failed to try to persuade Matthieu into kicking this odd little habit with the panic of an overbearing mother watching her kid wade into the water and screaming “drowning!”.

At some point, Mattheiu will have to lay to rest Arthur’s pride and Francis’s fears and share with them that, well… There was no point to this.

There was no cavorting with fire fae or trying to open up portals to Hell, or even trying to tap into the shamanism of his Inuit lineage (though, heavens knew that he needed to reconnect with the First Nations). Maybe there used to be a reason he came out here and risked arrest and safety to light up, but that was lost to the flames.

Or, maybe this was the point. The sensation of sharing his heart with this burning pile of combustible shit. Was anything more needed, besides the flames making itself beautiful on the ugliness of broken wood and waterlogged cardboard? Mattheiu bent to pick up the bottle of bourbon stuck in the sand by his feet. It was capless, so he had to rub the bits of sand that stuck to the lip with a thumb before tilting it into his mouth. He lowered the bottle to his side, swirling the thing to feel the remaining gulp slosh near the bottom.

Matthieu.

Almost compulsively, he tossed the bottle into the burning pile. He flinched and took a step back as the fire burst and curled outward, though his face remained blanked and unsympathetic to the cracking glass screaming in the heat. Slowly, Matthieu eased himself down into the sand, hugging his knees with the other half of the branch still in his grasp. Folded this way, he could feel how much stronger his heart pumped against his ribcage.

Tha-thump tha-thump tha-thump.

Matthieu. Matthieu. Matthieu!

He sighed and fed the branch to the hungry fire.


End file.
